


Beard

by morninghush



Series: Sheriarty 30 Days Challenge [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beards, Facial Shaving, M/M, Mentions/use of straight razor barber knife, PWP-ish, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:56:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morninghush/pseuds/morninghush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sheriarty 30 Days Challenge - Day 2</p>
    </blockquote>





	Beard

**Author's Note:**

> Sheriarty 30 Days Challenge - Day 2

“Right, Sherlock, that does it. I’ve had enough of this.” Jim’s exclamation is followed by a breathless sigh. Placing both hands on Sherlock’s bare chest, he gives a firm shove, effectively removing Sherlock’s lips from his neck.

Surprised and a little chagrined, Sherlock pulls back. The mere fact that he’s lounging half-naked in a huge bed in one of Jim’s many flats already puts him a bit out of his comfort zone. He props himself up on an elbow, searching the man’s face for a sign of what’s going on in the mind of the ever so changeable consulting criminal.

“What? Was that not to your satisfaction?” Sherlock asks, trying not to sound like a lovesick puppy in need of validation. The crooked smile that appears on Jim’s face tells him he didn’t succeed. 

“Oh, darling, you know there’s nothing I love more than your lips on me. But that situation you’ve got going on there has to come to an end,” Jim replies, illustrating his statement by circling his index finger around his own mouth a few times. “I’ve had quite enough of bristly kisses already.”

 _Right. The beard._ Sherlock catches on immediately. He’s been growing it out as part of a disguise for a case, never even considering Jim might have an opinion in the matter. It strikes him he should have. Of course Jim would have an opinion, like he does in just about anything that even slightly concerns the two of them.

“Well, technically, the investigation of the case is over, so I guess I could just get rid of it,” Sherlock mumbles, running his fingers over his cheeks and chin. It’s more of a scruff that a full-grown beard, and he has to admit it does feel rather coarse. “If it bothers you that much,” he adds as an afterthought, failing to hide that he is feeling a bit miffed.

“Just being honest, darling.” Jim's voice is so low and smooth that it’s no more than a purr now. He lifts a hand to Sherlock’s face, his thumb gently stroking the facial hair in question. 

Sherlock stares transfixed into his eyes, once again trying to wrap his head around exactly what it is about Jim that enthralls him so deeply that he’s choosing to spend his day in his bed, when he should be assisting DI Lestrade in unravelling the latest scheme of the very same man.

“Right. I’ll just shave it off then,” Sherlock sighs and shrugs. “Next time we meet, it will be gone.” 

Placing his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, Jim’s lips crook up in a cheeky smirk. “I have another idea. Hang on,” he exclaims, and gives Sherlock a peck on the forehead before he gets up and disappears out of the bedroom. 

Lying back on the bed, Sherlock listens to the sounds of shuffling coming from the bathroom. As he waits for Jim's return, a sinking feeling in his stomach warns him the man is up to something he won’t necessarily like. A forced shaving, by the sounds of it.

In only a matter of minutes Jim reappears, and as suspected his arms are filled with supplies. He pads over to the bed and puts it all down on the nightstand. Sherlock’s attention is divided between apprehension of what Jim’s up to, and appreciation of his lithe frame, his pale skin and the faint hint of a happy trail travelling down beneath the waistband of his boxers.

Grabbing something from the nightstand, Jim sits on the edge of the bed and turns towards Sherlock. The sunlight catches on the object in his hand, and even suspecting beforehand what Jim was up to, the realization that it is a sharp razor edge barber knife makes Sherlock inhale sharply. He stares up at Jim with wide eyes, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest.

Jim smiles and licks his lips. "Do you trust me, Sherlock?" he croons softly.

Sherlock swallows once, then again. "In theory," is all he can manage at first. Hearing his own words as they roll off his tongue, he realizes he does trust Jim, mad as that might be. “Yes, I trust you.”

His words are acknowledged by the slightest of nods. Crawling on top of Sherlock, straddling him, Jim reaches over to the nightstand. He retrieves a towel to place across Sherlock’s chest, and then wrings a cloth dipped in a bowl of hot water. Gently, he places the cloth on Sherlock's face, covering the lower half and throat.

"Oh my, now that's a sight that could give a man some ideas," Jim smirks and licks his lips. 

Leaning forward, Jim pulls the cloth tighter over Sherlock’s mouth, staring down at him with pupils that are too dilated to leave any room for doubt where his mind has gone. Sherlock’s muttered response is garbled against the cloth, and he has to trust his eye roll to send the message of what he thinks of Jim’s ideas.

When Jim’s satisfied the scruff covering Sherlock’s face is softened, he removes the cloth. Dropping a small dollop of shaving cream into a mug of water, he churns the cream with a brush to produce a thick lather. Gently, his brows furrowing as he focuses on the task, he slabs the cream over Sherlock's warm skin. It's not an unpleasant feeling and Sherlock closes his eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the sensation of lazy tingles drifting across his skin, like soft brushes of cool fingertips. 

Sherlock’s eyelids snap back open when he feels Jim shift atop him to put away the brush. His eyes are glued to Jim's hands and delicate fingers as he raises the blade. It looks ominous and sharp, and the light in the room seems to shift a tad, as if the sun just hid behind a cloud.

"I take it you know what you're doing?" Sherlock enquires nervously, his pulse thrumming with the speed of a hummingbird's frantic wing strokes. He blinks his eyes a few times to rid himself of a pearl of sweat that somehow appeared in the crook of his eye. 

"Relax, Sherlock. You just keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, and focus on staying completely still for me," Jim demands, authority blooming in his voice in a way that makes shivers run down Sherlock's back.

Jim tilts Sherlock head gently back on the pillow, exposing his throat. They share a glance and Sherlock swallows thickly. His movements almost exaggerated in their slowness, Jim presses the blade of the knife against Sherlock's neck, a little above his Adam's apple. 

The feeling of cold steel against warm skin is shockingly intense, and even if he’s prepared, Sherlock has to use all of his willpower not to flinch at the touch.

"Remember, don't move," Jim reminds him, not quite able to keep the grin out of his voice, and there is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind as to how much the man atop him is enjoying this. Careful to make sure the skin is taut, Jim traces the blade up along Sherlock's neck and throat, only stopping when he reaches the tip of his chin. 

It seems to last forever, that first pass of the blade up his throat. The sharpness against his delicate skin, the feeling of danger from Jim wielding a razor-sharp blade is intoxicating in a way that takes him entirely by surprise. He’s not sure he wants Jim to know just how much it affects him.

Too focused to speak, Jim only wipes the knife on the towel on Sherlock’s chest and repeats the procedure. Slowly, almost reverently, sharp steel rasps over soft skin, the sound oddly loud in the otherwise silent room. Sherlock's eyes are closed now, his breathing labored and shallow. The tingles roaming his body have grown a bit in intensity.

Before Jim can make another pass with the knife, Sherlock opens his eyes. “Jim, what I’m feeling against my chest right now... That’s not what I think it is, is it?”

“That depends. What do you think it is, Sherlock?” Jim isn’t even trying to hide his amusement anymore. Sherlock raises his head a little, and takes in the smirk on his face.

“Well, it _feels_ like someone is enjoying this just a tad too much,” Sherlock replies sardonically. Jim’s erection can’t be mistaken, making its presence known every time he moves back and forth on top of him. 

“Can you blame me? Holding a knife to your throat, do you even know how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment?” Jim chuckles. “Now shush, I need to focus,” he reprimands and places the knife at Sherlock’s throat again. 

Jim’s eyes dart back and forth, the pink tip of his tongue visible in the left corner of his mouth. As he leans over Sherlock, a few strands of hair falls into his eyes, and Sherlock can’t help the flutter his heart makes at the sight of Jim impatiently, subconsciously giving his head a shake to remove it.

Sherlock does as he’s told, trying his best to ignore the tingling sensation in his groin, _willing_ himself not to feel any excitement over the feeling of sharp steel against his skin or Jim’s more than evident pleasure over this entire situation.

Failing spectacularly in his efforts, Sherlock soon realizes he’s fighting a losing battle. By the time Jim is half done, he’s completely hard and struggling not to let a moan slip through pursed lips. He want to keep it from Jim’s attention as long as possible, to avoid the smart-ass comments he knows will be coming his way, the self-satisfied grin and the knowing look in his eyes.

Sherlock is grateful when Jim finally declares he’s finished shaving his neck. The long, slow passes of the blade up his neck and the pressure against his throat seems to have a direct connection to his groin. Every pass of the blade might as well have been a stroke of his cock for as hard as it makes him, straining against the cotton of his boxers. 

“Okay. Cheeks and moustache now,” Jim mumbles, more to himself than to Sherlock. He instructs Sherlock to grimace, adding his own hands to tighten the skin as the blade passes down his cheeks. 

The left side of Sherlock’s face is done without incident, but by the time Jim passes the knife down the right cheek, the game is up. A small moan, almost a whimper, escapes Sherlock. Jim’s eyes immediately snap to his, apparently having been too focused on his work to pay attention to Sherlock’s predicament. 

“Oh dear, who’s enjoying it too much, now?” Jim teases, the surprise in his eyes quickly replaced by amused delight. Sherlock closes his eyes and feels a blush spread over his cheeks, reluctant to admit to Jim how much being completely at his mercy turns him on.

“Jim, you little shit, just finish this so we can get on with the day,” Sherlock mutters through clenched teeth, making his voice as level as possible given the way his blood is starting to boil from Jim’s treatment.

“Almost finished, dearest.” A few more swipes on his upper lip and chin, and Jim gives a satisfied nod, grabbing the towel to wipe away what’s left of the shaving cream. “There, so much better. Your pretty face back to all its former glory.” 

Climbing off, Jim moves to the edge of the bed to put away the towel and the blade. As he turns back, the moment Sherlock has been waiting for arrives, and Jim’s reaction is exactly what he anticipated. His eyes roaming the lower half of his body, Jim smacks his tongue and raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Well, Sherlock, I figured you liked it, but this, this is just impressive.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes firmly, contemplating strangling Jim and burying the body somewhere no one will ever find it. “Yes, all right, all right. So it was a little… arousing.” Sherlock squirms just a little as he recalls the feeling of the blade and Jim’s fingers on his skin. Having Jim eying his situation with evident satisfaction isn’t helping.

From his position on the edge of the bed, Jim looks at Sherlock and grins. “You know, Sherlock… Since we already got all the gear out, what do you say we finish the job?” Jim jerks his head suggestively a few times in the general direction of Sherlock’s groin.

“No. No, Jim! No way,” Sherlock gasps, shocked by Jim’s suggestion. He is even more shocked when he feels his cock do a small jerk, groaning internally at his traitor body, a moist patch of precome appearing on the fabric of his boxers. “I mean it Jim, you are _not_ taking that blade to my balls, not in a million years.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks…” Jim laughs, his eyes crinkled in that way Sherlock usually finds endearing. Leaning down, Jim lets a palm run softly over Sherlock’s erection, making it twitch as much as the restraining fabric will allow. Sherlock can’t help but moan and his hips snap upwards, seeking Jim’s hand on its own accord. He wheezes between clenched teeth. 

“Jim… Fuck you, you little piece of shit,” Sherlock mumbles incoherently. Still, he doesn’t protest as Jim gazes questioningly at him, hitching both thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers to give it a light tug. The depth in those brown eyes is bottomless, and Sherlock is drowning, gasping for air. Not quite sure how it happened, some part of his brain allows him to give Jim a small nod. Wordlessly he lifts his hips off the bed to let Jim pull off his boxers. 

Sherlock can only watch helplessly as Jim once again retrieves the cloth from the bowl of hot water. His body is a confusing mix of ice-cold dread and scorching hot waves, starting from some point deep inside his gut, travelling the entire length of his body. 

Jim looks at Sherlock and chuckles, obviously still enjoying watching him turn into a mess. By the time Jim wraps his balls and the base of his cock in the hot towel, Sherlock is beyond caring. He gasps as Jim without warning bends and gives him a flick of the tongue, circling the head of his cock lightly a few times. The upwards thrust of his hips is futile, Jim’s teasing, warm mouth already gone. Sherlock isn’t sure if the groaning sounds he hears coming from his own mouth stem from pleasure or disappointment.

“Sherlock, you better not do that when I’m at it. Unless you’d like to risk your crown jewels, that is,” Jim warns him. Sherlock’s eyes are shut, and he can only imagine the smirk to go with Jim’s teasing tone.

When Jim removes the towel and starts the process of applying shaving cream again, keeping his eyes shut isn’t an option anymore. They snap open as enticing coolness replaces the heat of the towel, so much more powerful and distracting than before.

“And _you_ better know what you are doing down there.” Sherlock finds his own breathlessness mortifying, missing the mark for an intimidating tone entirely. 

Hitching himself up on his elbows to watch Jim’s progress, Jim only meets his eyes for a few seconds, tongue darting across his lips. Sherlock’s cock is throbbing under the gentle caresses of the brush and Jim’s fingers handling the tender flesh of his balls. Something about watching Jim tend to him in such a careful and focused manner is almost as much of a turn-on as the touches themselves.

Finally, Jim grabs the blade. “Now, Sherlock, it is important you focus, and we will both have a happy ending.” Jim giggles a little at his own double entendre. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but represses the urge to make a snide remark directed at the man about to put a knife to his genitalia.

Jim cups Sherlock’s delicate flesh, making sure the skin is stretched taut the way it needs to be. “Ready?” he asks. Jim is serious now, eyes flicking up to meet Sherlock’s, asking for permission.

Breathing out a sound of assent is all Sherlock is capable of, and then the tantalizing feeling on cold steel on his body strikes him again, even more strongly this time given the sensitive area under treatment. A myriad of tingles starting at the point of contact set his body on fire, blood boiling in his veins with almost alarming intensity. 

Sherlock moans, but holds still as Jim does a slow flick of his wrist. Moans and whimpers are coming in rapid succession, and Jim perseveres, repeatedly passing the blade over the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s balls. Throwing his head back, Sherlock stares at the ceiling, trying to find some point to fix his gaze on, to help him focus on holding still. As soon as he feels the blade removed from his skin, he thrusts into Jim’s hand as few times.

“God, I can’t take it anymore. Will you just finish already?” Sherlock growls and squirms against the bedsheets. His cock is as hard as ever, pulsing slowly in time with his pulse, rendering any attempt at hiding his arousal a moot point. 

“Soon, darling, just have a little patience. You’re going to look so pretty when I’m done with you. Jesus…” Jim’s voice isn’t quite steady as he handles Sherlock’s delicate skin. Sherlock raises his head again, glancing back down on Jim kneeling between his legs, focusing on his task. It occurs to him that Jim matches the intensity of an artist at work on a complicated sketch.

“There, all done,” Jim exclaims after a few more careful, yet unbearable passes of the blade. “Feel that.” After wiping away the rest of the cream, he grabs Sherlock’s hand and guides it down to let him feel himself. The feeling of touching his own smooth skin is more of a turn-on than Sherlock would have believed, and he moans a little at his own touch.

“Oh no, hands off,” Jim breathes and swats Sherlock’s hand away, keeping him from caressing himself again. “I’m the one who gets to inspect the results of my hard work.” 

The walls close in on Sherlock and the world shrinks to nothing but Jim’s warm, wet mouth as he leans down to gently suck first one, then the other one of Sherlock’s balls into his mouth. Sherlock isn’t sure how long Jim keeps going, all he knows is that the only possible response is to fall down onto his back, digging his heels into the mattress. He lifts his hips square off the bed, muttering to a god he doesn’t believe in to make sure Jim’s tongue never stops moving over his skin. 

Breaking contact for a few seconds, Jim gazes up at Sherlock, licking his lips. “Well worth the effort,” he smirks. Then he dips his head again, letting those plush, red lips close around Sherlock’s cock, sliding down, down, impossibly, torturously slow. Sherlock feels like he’s losing his mind by the Jim finally reaches the base, fingers tickling his shaved and sensitive balls. A hand finds its way to the back of Jim’s head, grabbing a fistful of hair.

Sherlock loses himself in pleasure as Jim’s continues his onslaught, moaning his name over and over until he’s teetering right on the edge. A part of him wants to stay on this ridge of anticipation and sweet agony forever, the other half aches for release. A flick of Jim’s tongue, a gentle squeeze of fingers and the decision is made for him. Sherlock falls from the highest peak, time slowing down as he releases his load into Jim’s waiting mouth. 

When he catches his breath again and opens his eyes, Jim’s face is hovering above him, gazing at him with a hungry look in his eyes. 

“That was... Good,” Sherlock smiles weakly up at Jim. Drawing a few deep breaths, he refocuses quickly. “And unless I’m mistaken, you’ve also got a situation that needs to be taken care of?” 

Before Jim has a chance to react, Sherlock grabs him and flips him around, reversing their positions. “Before I’m done with you, I’ll have you begging for mercy,” he croons against Jim’s lips. It’s a promise he intends to keep, an attempt at reclaiming some sense of control. 

Jim’s only reply is fingers twisting into his hair and a throaty moan when Sherlock’s lips go back to working his neck, the way the morning started out. “God, that’s so much better, Sherlock. So smooth…” Jim croaks, tracing his palm down Sherlock’s clean-shaven cheek in appreciation. 

Sherlock’s lips curl against Jim’s neck in a smile, no time to stop for a reply. The only thing that matters is what noises he can draw from Jim. Morning turns into midday before Sherlock is satisfied he has kept his promise to make Jim properly beg for mercy. All he knows as they lose themselves in each other is that he will be looking for any chance he can to grow a beard for a case again. 


End file.
